When We Met
by Semebay
Summary: Arthur Kirkland's assignment that day was to take pictures of the crime scene. An easy enough job. Only that day, he found himself questioning life and death after forming an attachment with someone that was already gone. Human AU, first person
1. Chapter 1

The first time I met you, you were already dead.

I walked trough the fronts doors of your house, and had it been any other day, I probably would have paused to admire the carved molding around the door, and the new coat of paint on the walls.

But dawdling was frowned upon, so I had pulled on the blue latex gloves given to the men on the scene, and I took up my camera.

There was nothing faintly interesting about you. You lay by your table, and your white skin had been carved and stained red. It was a rather common sight when it came to home invasions. Your house was a mess, and papers were scattered through the halls and up the stairs. A bookcase had fallen and broken a window, and the rain outside was blown in. Your carpet was wet and dark, and my superior motioned for me to take a picture. Books had fallen from the top shelf and outside, and I stepped closer to see some of the titles.

_Theory of Relativity. _

_A Brief History of Time. _

_Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy._

_Star Trek._

_The Universe in a Nutshell._

_The Origin of Species._

I don't know why I paid attention to the books. From the first glance, I knew that they were of no interest to me. But what caught my eye were the bindings, and the creased covers and bent corners. It was an odd thing to notice when your body was lying behind me on the floor. But I did. And I wondered briefly about what you would think, knowing that the books you had obviously read over and over were being drenched by rain, and some with mud.

It wasn't an observation that meant anything. It was just a passing thought, one that I would forget as soon as I started taking pictures. Pictures of your house, your body, the bloodstains on the wall, and when the medical examiner called me over, I took close-ups of your fingernails, and your wrist. You had fought in your final moments. That much was obvious from the skin that was under your nails, though the scratches on your wrist were more confusing.

I don't know why the M.E. asked me for my opinion. He turned your hand after the pictures had been taken and the skin samples bagged, and turned it so that the tiny scratches were facing upward. I could only shrug.

"It's probably a cat," one of the other officers called over. He pointed to an old chair with fraying upholstery, and I could hear what he was talking about. There were sounds coming from under the chair, and I walked over, then knelt to look underneath.

Your cat was terrified, and cowered back against the wall that the chair was by. His eyes were wide, and his tail thumped against the floor. I slowly slid my hand under the chair, and he laid his ears back and hissed at me.

* * *

The second time I saw you, your face was in the obituaries.

My cat was ignoring me, because the night after I had met you, they sent your cat home with me. I'm sure they thought it was a good idea; my coworkers knew I liked cats, and that I lived alone. The fact that I had spent almost thirty minutes getting your cat to come out had probably also had something to do with it.

They had waited before sending him home with me. They had searched your house for records and contacts, but the only thing they found was your license. You had a name, but that didn't give us much.

You were Alfred Williams. You had moved into the country recently, and hadn't had time to make any connections with people. The investigators found contact information, but they couldn't find anyone you knew that night. That left me with your cat.

I think taking your cat to my house is what made me think of you more. It felt like our lives were similar, in spite of the differences. Your cat's matching set of bowls, with the engraved hamburgers and the large "HERO" was much like the set I had for my own Henry. Except, of course, Henry had small fish engraved on his bowl, and his name was smaller, in cursive. His bowls also had a golden finish, unlike the silver of Hero's bowls.

But I think it was obvious that you and I shared a common love for our cats. And when I saw you in the newspaper the following day, it scared me. My boss sent me an e-mail detailing what we had found out about you. It was at that time that I started making parallels, and finding connections between us, and I knew that I couldn't work on your case anymore.

You were younger than me by only a few years. Twenty-six to my thirty. We were both people with great affection for our pets, if the bowl sets were any indication. You had come to England without knowing anyone here, and had no blood relatives that we could find in your home country or mine. My family had fallen apart years ago, before I had started with my department, and my "personal relationships" could be counted on my fingers, and were really only personal when we went to get lunch together during the afternoon break. They were really only professional relationships, but sometimes I liked to pretend that if I ever needed help, I could call my coworkers and receive it.

You and I were both lonely people, I'm sure. We both had our cats, and out jobs (I saw that you were going to be a teacher at one of the schools, and I kind of understood why those books had seen such use.

That morning that I saw your picture and your name, while I tried to coax your cat out from under my bed, I thought of what would happen if I died.

What would happen to Henry? Would he go to a complete stranger, someone that wouldn't know what kind of food and treats he liked? Would he go to a shelter?

Would he bite and scratch my hand after I died, trying to wake me, and then flee when the strangers came into my house to pack up my body and send me to the morgue?

Thinking about that scared me. I couldn't stop myself from forming connections with you, connections with a dead man, and I knew that helping the investigators on your case, and trying to contribute ideas, would likely break me, and further question the "coulds" and the "ifs."

* * *

The third time I saw you was when I spoke to my boss, and formally requested to be removed from your case. I think he understood my reasons. I hope he didn't think I was weak, or unreliable. I didn't want to be seen that way, but I knew that those thoughts would be proven true if I were to stay.

Your pictures were all over the wall of his office. Pictures of you from your license, and the crime scene. There were closeups of your wounds, all of the pictures that I had taken, and I think my boss could tell from my actions that seeing you made me uncomfortable.

He granted my request, and told me to cheer up.

Not all cases were this hard.

* * *

The fourth time, you were on television.

I had returned home from work that night, carrying a bag of Chinese takeout and another bag of catfood and treats. I had needed more food for Hero, as the kind we found in your house had reached the bottom. He didn't care for Henry's food. I had wondered if he was like you, if his finicky eating patterns mimicked your own.

Henry and Hero didn't get along. Hero tried, I think, to make friends. But Henry had always been like me. He had formed a wall between himself and Hero, and protected it with hissing and slaps. Hero never learned to stop trying, but had at least learned how to avoid the slaps, either through a hasty retreat or by striking first.

I wondered if Hero had recognized you, when your picture was on the television. He had stopped and stared for a moment, watching while my boss told the media what little he knew about you, and the man that killed you. You looked far better in the picture they showed, than in the ones that I had taken.

You were living in those pictures. You were tan, instead of a washed-out gray. Your eyes were bright blue, and held a light in them that had been extinguished only days before. Your hair was clean and free of the blood that had stuck it together, and there was one section, a cowlick, that stood up almost proudly. You wore glasses in the picture, glasses that had been missing at the crime scene. And you had a smile on your face that had been lost to death.

I changed the channel and sat on the floor between my couch and the coffee table. I had opened the bag of Chinese food and spread it out, then tried to distract myself by attempting to use the chopsticks that had come with it. Hero came out from where he hid under the couch, and I gave him a piece of pepper-steak.

He didn't stay to eat it. He bit down on the piece of meat and quickly dragged it under the couch, where he could eat alone, away from the strange person that had dragged him from his home and put him in a place with a cat that hated him.

Henry, a hater of most human foods, watched with interest (and maybe a bit of jealousy) while Hero ate, and then crept out slowly for another piece. I gave it to him, and he flinched when my fingers went to close. He disappeared back under the couch without taking the food, and so I let it sit on the floor. I was sure he would be back to take it later, to eat something that he obviously enjoyed more than the catfood that was good for him.

I wondered if you had given him the taste for human food, and decided that you spoiled him.

Whether it was true or not, I liked to believe that it was.

* * *

The fifth time, you were a dream.

I was confused by everything then. I had let the cats out the backdoor, into the fenced garden where nothing could get in or out. I have sat down with a book, some anthology from the bookshelf in my bedroom, and you were there.

I don't know what possessed me to dream about you. But the dream felt so calm, as though it was everyday that we sat around in my garden and watched the cats play with one another, chasing butterflies and each other.

I'm sure it was my anxiety over Hero. In spite of his size, he ate very little when I fed him. He was the outcast in our tiny home, the cat that had been brought home by accident. He was probably sad, lonely. He feared me, even though he obviously wanted a companion. Maybe my dream was an attempt to make Hero happy, to make it seem as though nothing had changed for this cat, and that you were there. You were still his owner, his best friend, and you were still alive for him.

But that was just me trying to explain something I had no understanding of. It was probably wrong.

* * *

The sixth time, you had left my dreams to become a hallucination.

You sat at the end of my bed when I woke in the middle of the night, taken from sleep by Hero jumping on the duvet. You played with him, and ran your finger up between his eyes and down his nose. You rubbed him and flipped him, and he meowed and purred as I had never seen him do before.

Then the hallucination of you looked at me, as though you had just noticed me, and you smiled.

"_Hi, Arthur."_


	2. Chapter 2

When you spoke to me, I hesitate to say that I cared. For me, you were a hallucination, and maybe you were. The only thing that truly caught my attention was Hero, and his excited jostling. I don't think I really understood that I was awake at that moment. You stared at me, and I stared at the cat, while Hero stared at you. I remember thinking it was funny, how no one looked at each other. Then I remember Hero nipping your fingers and pressing his head against you, forcing you to run your fingers past his ears and down his back, where you tugged his tail before he turned around and chased your fingers.

I looked at you, finally, when Hero pounced on your hand. You looked between Hero and me, and tilted your head to the side. You smiled at me, and I was struck by your eyes. They were deep blue, and shone with the light that I had seen on television. They weren't the eyes that had stared at nothing, dull and dead.

"_So..."_ You tugged on Hero's tail again, and he meowed at you. I heard Henry clawing at the door to the bedroom, and I didn't think about what you were doing there. You looked like you wanted to say more, but I pushed back the covers and walked to the door.

I was tired, and aware that Henry wanted to come to bed. I didn't remember shutting the door, but Hero had an unfortunate habit of leaning against doors and shutting himself in (or out of) where he wanted to be. I pushed open the door and Henry plodded inside. He pinned his ears back at the bed and hissed, and then ran under it.

I walked right past you, and saw the hand that you reached out with. I thought you were trying to touch me, for some reason, but your hand stopped short of mine.

Then I climbed back into bed. Hero tried to attack my feet when they slid under the blankets, and I had to make sure that I kept still. I pulled the blankets up, and when I laid down to sleep, you were gone.

* * *

I think Hero changed after that night. It felt like he tried harder to belong to the family he had been forced to join. As a result, there were more fights between him and Henry. It was rather annoying and worrisome when I had to drag the two apart, but a week passed and they started to get along.

I use "get along" rather loosely, of course. It felt more like Henry tolerated Hero's presence, and didn't actively try to hurt him. Henry wouldn't attack when Hero tried to pull him into a game of chase or when he tried to tackle him. It was more than I ever expected Henry to tolerate, and I was grateful. I no longer worried about the possible fights between the two whenever I had to work or go shopping.

Hero's changes weren't only noticeable with Henry. When I sat down to have breakfast in the morning, Hero was right there, rubbing himself against my legs under the table, or coaxing me into dropping my hand down to pet him. He still had a tendency to back away if I moved too fast, but that disappeared as the days went by. While I had been worried about Hero's presence before, the change had made me eager to get home from work, where I could play with each of them, and not worry about how I should move my body so as not to scare Hero.

I didn't know why Hero changed. I remembered seeing you, a _hallucination_, at the foot of my bed. He had been lively then, enough so that he attacked my feet when I slid them under the blankets. He had been playing with what I thought was _you_.

I didn't know much of anything, I suppose. I believed in spirits, in otherworldly beings. There were a lot of things I was willing to accept. I could accept faeries, and ghosts, and unicorns.

What I wasn't willing to accept was _you_. I wasn't willing to accept the fact that you existed in my small home, trapped on this earth, unable to pass on completely. I couldn't accept that you weren't where you had to be.

Maybe that was why I was so determined to push you away those following days. I avoided any mention of you at work. I avoided reading the paper, for fear I would see your face again and _wonder_. I knew thinking about you was unhealthy. Becoming attached to a victim could ruin an officer, and I wasn't willing to end my career before I felt it had really begun.

I admit I was paranoid. I felt like you were there, watching, and I hated it. When I slept at night, I refused to open my eyes when I heard a noise, and tried to bury myself deeper in the blankets and pillows. There were times I was terrified to open my eyes, for fear that you would be sitting there, your eyes locked on mine, staring without moving or blinking, your eyes narrowed.

I was scared of you, but I didn't know why. I continued to insist that you were simply a hallucination, something that would go away in time. I told myself that the nights I lay awake, feeling _something_ watching me, would be over. They would end, and I would live on. I wouldn't have to quell my fear when I turned down the lights and climbed into bed, and then insist that my hallucinations would go away, and that I wouldn't have to be institutionalized.

I didn't sleep much then, and I'm quite sure (rather, I will forever insist) that the lack of sleep affected my common sense.

There were no ghosts in my house. I was host to a dead man's cat. I was probably also going through an early mid-life crisis. That was how I rationalized my thoughts about you.

Right up until I saw you, that seventh time, in my living room.

By then, two weeks had passed since that night on the bed, when you had played with Hero and I had taken you for a hallucination. When I saw you in my living room, I thought the same. My lack of sleep and increasing paranoia about _you_ were affecting me more than I had wanted. I was sure I was seeing things, and was ready to pull the blinds in my room and go to sleep four hours early with the intention of not waking until I had slept at least twelve hours. I was sure that such a long time sleeping would solve my problem and get rid of you, but you said my name again.

"_Arthur."_

It was just like that night, and I decided that sleep was a necessity. I also thought that by sleeping earlier, when it was still light out, would stop those long periods of fear and tension, of me trying to convince myself that I was alone in the house with two cats, and that there was no one else there.

I walked to my room, but you stopped me. I don't know why, or how, but I couldn't move from my spot. You were in front of me then, as though you had always been there. I hadn't seen you move from your place by my bookshelf, and I admit, it startled me.

You didn't say anything. You just looked at me. It was as though you couldn't decide what I was. If I was human. If I was actually even there.

I didn't know what to do in that situation. I'm not sure if I truly realized that you weren't a hallucination. I was simply stuck in place, and I looked at you, and you looked at me, and I may have acted a bit ungentlemanly when I had shouted a very annoyed (and rather cruel), "Why the fuck do you keep popping up?"

I don't know who was more scared in that moment. I saw your eyes widen with shock and what I'm sure was hurt; I myself was trying to cope with what could have been _you_, or what could have been a delusion. Hero, the poor thing, had run to meet you, but he still wasn't very used to me. I could hear his claws click on the tile in the kitchen when he turned and ran away, and the noise attracted your attention.

While I continued to shout at you, and at myself, you averted your eyes and tried to watch the cat that was torn between running to you and staying clear of me.

"This is fucking insane!" I remember hissing when I walked to the couch. I slumped down on it, and though I wasn't far enough along to start pulling out my own hair, I did grab one of the throw pillows and muffle my words with it.

I was caught between anger and exasperation at that point. If you were _you_, then you shouldn't be there. Even if your cat was in my house, you didn't belong (or deserve) to exist in my home, until the end of time, or until you could finally go where you needed.

If you were a delusion, then I was going to suffer serious repercussions at work. I had formed an attachment with you (a serious mistake), had dreamed of you (even worse), and was seeing you _in my house_.

There was no good part of you being there. All of it was bad, though the fact that you could have been a hallucination was better for _you_ at least, though it would have put me in an institution.

I shouted into the pillow and pressed it against my face. It pushed my nose against my face, and I didn't take it away though it was uncomfortable and my breath was making it warm and kind of damp, adding to the discomfort.

You simply called out to your cat, a small, _"Hey buddy. Long time no see."_

Maybe the fact that I _knew_ I was awake and heard Hero run to you was what made me pull the pillow down so that it lay on my chest, and look at you.

You looked sad. That was the only thing I could think when I watched you. You had knelt down to play with Hero after he had left the kitchen, and you tugged his tail while he turned his body around and around, throwing himself against you to get you to pet him.

I wanted to say something. I wanted to see who you were, why you were there in my living room. I wanted to know why you haunted me so. I was sure it was Hero; I _knew_ it was Hero. You had obviously cared for him, and had come back to be sure that he was being kept safe, and not being neglected. The thought made _me_ sad. An attachment kept you here, but only for your cat. You had no human connections (that I knew of), and it reflected more of me. I found myself again wondering about my existence, and my lack of relationships and connections.

I couldn't stop myself from asking you, "Are you really there?"

I almost wish you had acted surprised. I wish you had jumped, as though you had forgotten me. Or maybe you could have let out a noise, any noise, something that showed you hadn't expected me to speak. I didn't want to be the only one that was so shocked and confused by the situation, that simply seeing you could make my heart race and my blood run cold.

As it was, you simply arched an eyebrow, and your eyes may have widened just a tiny bit. You didn't stop your hands and continued to play with Hero, but you had looked away, and your gaze remained on me.

"_Yeah."_ You nodded at me, slowly, and your cowlick moved as though brushed by an unseen wind. _"Yeah. I am."_

"Why?" was the only thing I could find the will to say, and you looked down at the floor briefly before you looked back at me.

"_I don't know."_

Neither of us knew what to say. At least, _I_ didn't know what to say. It was possible that you simply didn't have anything you wanted to say. Maybe you had already accepted what was happening, and I was the one that still had to figure out what was going on, and how to cope with it. It felt incredibly backward, as _you_ were the one that was dead.

Henry had chosen that time to make himself known. He had been curled up on my bed, but apparently wanted to come out and climb on the couch with me. He hissed when he left the bedroom and had to dart around you and Hero, before he jumped up on the couch. I flinched when Henry's paws hit my stomach and he sank down, and then he dug his claws into my shirt and began to knead them. I tossed the throw pillow on the floor and rubbed his chin with one of my fingers, and I never noticed you watching me.

I decided that I wouldn't speak to you. How could I? What could I possibly say to you? You were dead. In my home. Playing with your cat.

I watched Henry, determined not to look at you. I wanted you to be gone when I looked again.

You wouldn't give me that courtesy.

I don't think I'll ever know what went through your mind. I'm still as confused now as I was then. I had wanted you to stay away while I thought about what was to be done. I knew that there couldn't possibly be an easy solution for the problem I found myself in.

Then you walked over to me. Hero followed behind you, nipping at your heels and bumping his head against your legs. You barely noticed him, only pausing to nudge him with your toes. Then you stood over me, looking down on me with eyes I couldn't see as anything but sad.

"Yes?"

"_I didn't know you could see me. Back then."_

Henry hissed and glared at you. His claws dug into my chest, and I had to pull them out while pretending that it really didn't hurt. I don't know why I wanted to keep up a rather strong appearance in front of you; it seemed completely illogical considering I was alive, and you were... Well, dead.

"That was you, too?" I ended up asking. It was a stupid question. I knew the answer.

"_You didn't look at me. I uh... You just went back to sleep."_

"Did you expect me to—I don't know—start a conversation with you? In case you missed it, you're dead!"

The moment I saw your eyes widen and your mouth fall open, I realized what I had said. You stared at me, and before I could apologize, you shrugged.

"_You think I don't know that?"_

I didn't have a chance to say anything. You had already left.

In that moment, I hated myself.

* * *

Two days passed before I saw you again. Rather, I felt you. The two nights that you had been gone, I hadn't felt cold in my room. I hadn't felt the tension that I knew had been you, and I hadn't felt the tremors that had traveled through my body when you had watched me.

Those came on that third night, when I opened my eyes to see you kneeling beside my bed. You smiled at me, and you looked almost nervous. It was more a question than a smile.

I think we were both lonely. That was why you came back, and why you reached out.

I wished I could take your hand. I tried, but my hand passed through yours.

At least then, your smile was no longer a question.

* * *

It was odd with you as a house guest (if you could really be called that). I hesitate to say that we fell into some kind of system of _normalcy_. Living with a ghost was far from normal.

You were an interesting person to talk to (most of the time). I'll admit that I enjoyed your terrible sense of humor, and your attempts to discredit most of the things that I said about... Well, anything really. You insisted that my choice in books was poor, that the movies I liked were confusing and boring, that my cooking was dreadful. I told you that _you_ were an insufferable git, and that _my_ cooking was fine, and that _you_ were the one that couldn't understand humor and fine reading.

I meant those things. That didn't mean I didn't like you. You had a charm about you that made me envious, and I wished that I had met you before everything. I wished that we could have run into each other, and that I had a personality that would have let me talk to you. I wished that you were still alive.

You never stayed for long. I don't know what determined how long you could stay visible, but you would flicker in and out of sight. When you were visible, you would play with Hero. He would play with you like he never played with me. While you talked about some scientific theories that I had never heard of, he would throw himself over you, crawling on your lap and shoulders and nipping at your fingers. When you were gone, Hero would try to play with Henry, or he would start chewing on my furniture.

You were angry when you found out I had taken to spraying him with water when he misbehaved, but I think you were just joking.

As much as I enjoyed your presence, it still scared me. I still shivered when I knew you were near at night, and whenever I saw you looking at me with those bright eyes, I was struck with both fear and wonder. Your eyes seemed to look through me, and I hated that. I hated that I enjoyed it. Whenever you looked at me and grinned, or just stared, something burned within me.

I never wanted to identify that burn. Not when it was caused by a dead man.

* * *

Once, you came to my work. I panicked when I saw you there, looking at the pictures that hung on one of the walls in my boss's office. They were pictures of you, and I didn't know how to make you turn away without making a fool of myself. I didn't want you to see those pictures, to see your own final moments again after suffering them. I wished that you would look at me, and that you would understand me.

I would rather you pay attention to me, instead of looking at what you had once been.

I think I know what you saw before you looked back at me. You touched the picture with your hands, and my boss had looked back. You probably didn't notice how you moved the paper. You didn't think it was weird, though anyone that looked would only see the paper fluttering in a place where there was no wind.

You left then, and never went near those offices again.

* * *

I never thought that talking about your death was the right thing to do. I was sure it was a taboo, sure that if our positions had been reversed, I wouldn't want to talk about something so terrible.

I don't remember feeling surprised when you confronted me later. But I do remember feeling shocked by your anger. You had been infuriated, and had toppled bookshelves and furniture in your rage.

"_You didn't tell me you knew him!"_ you had shouted, and a potted plant had broken and sent soil spilling across the floor. _"You knew who he was! You knew all along!"_

My book was ripped from my hands, and I shrank into the cushions of my chair. You scared me more in that moment than you ever had before. I don't know if you were fully aware of that fact. I only knew that you had been screaming, and then you had disappeared.

You left me to pick up the pieces left behind.

* * *

I didn't tell you about the sketch because I didn't know how you would react. I also didn't know that much about how it originated. I only knew that someone had seen that man near your house that might, and they they had been suspicious. They had made a sketch, and judging from your reaction, they had gotten it right.

I'm sure looking at the face of the man that killed you brought back unfortunate memories. That's why I didn't want to tell you, or show you.

I just didn't think that you would feel so angered and betrayed by what I didn't say.

* * *

You stayed away for weeks. Hero was dejected and crawled into bed with Henry and me. Henry didn't protest. I don't know when their relationship changed; maybe it was while you and I were getting along. While we paid attention to each other, our pets were forming their own relationship.

I'm glad they got along. It meant that Hero didn't hide himself away when you were gone. I could tell he was depressed with you gone. He waited by the chair you had always thrown yourself on, slept in it when he was alone in the day. He played with Henry, but he waited for you.

We both waited for you.

* * *

You returned on a rainy day. It was dark outside, and reminded me of the day we had found you and the investigation had started. I remembered your prized books, soaked by the rain, and your body struck down by a murderer's knife.

You didn't cry then, but I think you wanted to. You appeared when I prepared for bed, and the bed shifted below your weight. I didn't say anything to you, but I watched you. You smiled at me, and I wished that you could feel the warmth of the blankets, and of the house.

I don't know if you felt anything that way. You could play with Hero, and throw things in your anger, but I don't think you could _feel_ those things. I don't know if you could feel the temperature, or the feeling of rain against your transparent body, or the uncomfortable feeling when you sat in the sun too long.

You looked so hurt, though I know you tried to hide it.

I wished my hands could reach you.

* * *

I was taking pictures of another murder when they found him.

The M.E. had asked me to look at the entry wound on the victims chest, and had commented on the sad state of the world. He talked about you, about the person that had killed you. I didn't feel right about it. Knowing you, yet talking to someone else about your murder felt wrong. It hurt, and emphasized the distance between us.

My boss watched me work, and I think he was looking for the same signs I had shown at your crime scene. I hate to admit that I was happy I didn't share the same empathy with the new victim that I did with you. It felt so cold and self-serving. But I didn't feel anything for that person.

You had been different somehow.

One of the officers called out to me, and I followed him outside into the sun. He gave me a cup of tea that one of the others had bought, and looked up at the sky.

Your killer had been caught. A failed burglary.

I drank my tea, and wondered how you would react when I told you.

The sun felt better then.

* * *

I had to wait three hours after I returned home to tell you, and then you just looked at me. You were silent, and you didn't smile.

I asked why. You had been avenged, your killer found, and he was going to be brought to justice.

You sat down in your chair, and even Hero couldn't get you to answer him. After a while, you finally looked at me.

I hated that thing you tried to pass off as a smile.

* * *

That night, you said goodbye.

* * *

_Thank you for dying to meet me._


	3. Chapter 3

_And thank you for living to be with me._

* * *

I missed you, and I hated you.

It was a terrible feeling. I hated and loved a dead man. Every time I had tried to forget about you and regain my senses, I had fallen deeper. I had known that nothing could come of liking you, and thinking about you, but stopping had been impossible. There was no way for me to stop when you were right in front of me.

When you had left, it had hurt that much more.

I didn't let it bother me at work. I refused to let them see me when the reason that I was so depressed was so unnatural. I couldn't let them know anything.

I didn't cry. I made sure not to. I played with Henry and Hero, and I pretended that my life was normal. I pretended that you had never existed, and that you had been a hallucination, a story I made up.

I hated that story, and I don't know if it helped me or not.

However, I could pretend, and I could lie. I told myself I didn't need you, and that I had never needed you. You had just walked in without permission, and had proceeded to mess up my life.

I just returned to how things had been before.

I was lonely.

* * *

You were on the other side of the door when I answered. I stared at you, and you only smiled.

"I met the big guy upstairs, or whoever the hell he was," you said, in a voice I had imagined hearing ever since you had left that year before. "I guess when you say "no" enough, they listen!" You tilted your head to the side and adjusted your glasses. "My name's Alfred Jones!" you told me.

I think I was crying when I pulled you inside and shut the door.

But you were too.

* * *

I wanted to write you a letter. Maybe a journal. I wanted you to know everything, but I wanted you to know nothing. I wanted to tell you how much you meant to me, how much you still mean to me.

But I can't. I can't tell you how I felt, when you left me. I can't tell you how I felt when you came back.

I want to. But I don't want to show you that weakness, those insecurities.

I don't know why I wrote this. You're already in bed, and I don't know why I stayed up this late. It's completely illogical.

It's probably you. You've never been normal, and I don't think you would disagree.

I want to give this to you, but I don't.

I'll just burn it.

* * *

Arthur put down his pen and stared at the letter on the desk before him. His words shone under the light of the lamp, the ink not yet dry, and he silently turned the pages to look at what he had written. They were his best and worst memories, and he carefully blew on the top sheet. He wanted the ink to dry faster, so that it wouldn't smudge when he placed them all together and put them in an envelope.

Arthur looked back at his bed and listened to the purrs and soft breathing. Alfred slept peacefully, the blankets pulled up around him and two cats resting against his stomach.

He was flesh and blood, a solid presence that Arthur could touch and hold. He was living.

It had been confusing at first. Alfred had come with a new last name, a new body, but no past or papers. Arthur had searched endlessly through his sources for someone, anyone, that could supply official documentation and ask no questions.

It had taken months of searching and adjusting to the familiar but oh-so-different living arrangement.

Hero had been pleased.

Henry had acted the same as usual, with an indifference that was only swayed after months of Alfred trying to make him like him.

Arthur didn't remember most details. He just remembered the touches, and the warmth, and the fact that Alfred didn't fade away and disappear.

He also remembered the stares, when a coworker had dropped in unexpectedly and seen Alfred. There was confusion, but then the coworker had feigned understanding.

The coworker had thought Alfred _Williams_ had looked too much like Alfred _Jones _for Arthur to be comfortable.

Arthur had let them think that.

When Alfred's new papers had come in, and he had managed to snatch up Alfred Williams's old job at the school, it had felt like something had changed for the best.

Arthur sighed and thought back to the present. It was dark in their house, and all was silent. He picked up the pages before him, and when Alfred shifted and groaned in his sleep, Arthur stood. He crept from their bedroom and walked out to the kitchen, where he found a box of matches behind the sink and then took them outside.

Arthur burned the letter on his front steps, and watched the ashes paint part of the poured walkway a dusty black.

"You don't need to know all that," Arthur mumbled, and the wind snatched his words away.

When the flames had extinguished themselves, Arthur returned to the house and locked the front door . He checked that all of the lights were off, and then he finally made his way back to the bedroom. He slid in under the blankets and pressed his toes against Alfred's legs, chuckling when the other shifted and grumbled in his sleep. Hero batted at him playfully with a paw, and Arthur kissed the pads.

"Go to sleep," Arthur said, and for once, the cat complied (after Henry slapped him, of course). Arthur looked at Alfred and took a breath. He kissed him in the center of his forehead, brushing his cowlick with a finger, and then he sank down into the sheets.

He let himself sleep.


End file.
